“I hadn’t realized we had so many men who’d worked on the old ships still here,” Mulligan had said. “I’d thought a lot had moved on, but seems they’ve just been waiting and hoping.”
They were close to having a full roster of men—all experienced hands.
Kit couldn’t help but think that, despite her former prickliness and regardless of her intentions in storming into his office, Sylvia Buckleberry had contributed significantly to easing the path for Cavanaugh Yachts.
CHAPTER 5
At noon on Friday, Sylvia set out to call at the school, ostensibly to check on the state of supplies, but in reality, to see how everything was going and to reassure herself that everyone was settling into their new home.
She felt a happy thrill on setting eyes on the hall—solid and respectable, a much bet
ter place for the school, for teaching the boys that, with education and application, they, too, could aspire to inhabit such an area.
She opened the door and stepped inside to find lunchtime in progress—the boys seated cross-legged on the floor, munching whatever they’d brought from home and on the apples the school, through the good offices of Miss Meggs, provided. The boys were listening to Cross, who was perched on a stool and reading aloud from a boys’ adventure novel.
All heads turned her way, and happy smiles spread across every face.
Closing the door behind her, Sylvia smiled back. It was transparently clear that the members of her small school community were reveling in their new surrounds.
She crossed to where Miss Meggs sat behind one of the unused desks. Sylvia caught the assistant’s eye. “All in order?”
“Indeed, Miss Buckleberry.” Miss Meggs’s smile said it all. “We’re all so much more comfortable here.” She nodded toward the boys, who had returned their attention to Cross. “They’ve settled right in and have been behaving themselves and, I would say, paying even greater attention to their lessons. Mr. Jellicoe, Mr. Cross, and I were saying just before that the change of venue seems to have convinced them that what they learn could truly make a difference.”
Sylvia nodded. “One of those intangible effects, but all to the good.”
“Indeed.”
The door at the rear of the hall opened, and Jellicoe came in. He saw Sylvia, nodded and smiled in greeting, then strolled around the hall to join her.
Sylvia turned to Miss Meggs. “Do you need any further supplies?”
“Actually, yes.” The assistant started hunting through the papers on her desk. “I’ve been making a list... Ah, here it is.” She handed Sylvia a note with several items listed. “Just some chalks and more ink.”
Sylvia took the list, scanned it, then tucked it into her reticule. “I’ll probably call in on Monday—I’ll bring them then.”
Jellicoe halted beside her, his expression conveying his satisfaction. “Next time you see Lord Cavanaugh, do pass on our profound thanks for our change of scenery.” He grinned. “It’s reawakened our enthusiasm—and not just ours, but theirs, too.” He tipped his head toward their pupils, then drew out his watch, consulted it, and tucked the timepiece back into his waistcoat pocket. “Time to get back to our lessons.”
A sharp rap on the front door had him pausing. “Hello,” he said, as the door opened to reveal a somewhat rotund gentleman. “Who’s this?”
The gentleman paused on the threshold. He carried a cane and wore a short top hat, and his striped waistcoat strained to remain decently anchored over his stomach. After several seconds of surveying the scene—Cross had stopped reading and, along with the boys, was silently staring at the stranger—the gentleman harrumphed and, in a manner that screamed self-importance, walked in.
Sylvia moved to intercept him. “Can I help you, sir?”
The gentleman’s gaze, which had fixed on Jellicoe, shifted to her. A slight frown drew the man’s brows down. “And you are?”
Sylvia did not like his tone, but kept an assured smile on her face. “Miss Buckleberry. I’m the school’s administrator.”
“Are you, indeed?” The man looked faintly surprised, then his earlier, somewhat peevish expression returned. “In that case, Miss Buckleberry, it is, indeed, you to whom I wish to address my most strident protest over this school being moved into this area.”
Planting his cane between the toes of his boots and leaning on it, the gentleman glowered—at Sylvia, then at all those behind her, the boys especially. Sylvia could almost see the horrid man’s lip curl.
She drew herself up. “And you are, sir?” Her tone had turned decidedly frosty.
“I, Miss Buckleberry, am Councilor Peabody.” The man returned his gaze to her face and, as if the words gave him license to crush all there, triumphantly added, “Councilor for this ward.” He rolled on, “And I am here to tell you that siting a school such as this in this neighborhood is entirely unacceptable. My constituents don’t want dockside brats running amok around their houses. All well and good to bring education to the poor, but institutions such as this should remain in their proper place—in this case, by the docks.”
Sylvia had encountered men like Peabody before. With icy calm, she met his gaze and arched her brows. “Indeed? Tell me, does the Abbey fall within your ward?”
Peabody nodded with smug satisfaction. “It does, indeed. The Abbey and all the surrounding streets.”